


Curiosity

by LadyStrangeandUnusual (Dream_Wreaver)



Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice - All Media Types
Genre: Daddy Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, First Time in Movie Verse, beetlebabes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:47:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22706443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dream_Wreaver/pseuds/LadyStrangeandUnusual
Summary: They say that curiosity is a deadly thing. But for Lydia, it might the beginning to truly living
Relationships: Beetlejuice/Lydia Deetz
Comments: 11
Kudos: 183





	Curiosity

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day my Netherlings! Decided to do something a bit different as a gift to the movie-babes in the discord. Bear with me, it's my first time writing the OG Geuse. At any rate, please enjoy!

Normally one would think that being rid of some psycho dead guy with very little qualms about murder or marrying people under the age of eighteen -marriage of inconvenience be damned- would be cause for celebration. You had a creepy undead pervert gone from your midst and the only parental figures you would really care to listen to back and mostly in one piece. And you had a better life because of it. And for the most part, Lydia would have agreed. She was happier with the Maitlands safe and sound for the remainder of their probationary haunting period. She was happier in general; she had a good life, at least two parents that loved her unconditionally, and yet another set that took everything that had happened since they had moved to this house in the middle of nowhere in stride. And most importantly, she _wasn’t_ the wife of some sleazy, skeevy, decaying would be Don Juan who she would never forget officially meeting on the roof of a model brothel, looking as though he’d fucked his way through all of it.

And yet… that ring. The one Lydia wore on her left ring finger. The one _he_ had put there. It weighed on her. On her mind and on her finger. He had said it was nothing more than a marriage of inconvenience, a way for him to get “out”, whatever that had meant. It was supposed to be nothing more than that. But, the more she thought about it, the less sense it began to make. If it was nothing more than a marriage of inconvenience, a green card marriage to the living world if one would, why had he been putting on such an act? The reverend certainly hadn’t seemed to care if this was about love, probably one of those Vegas preachers continuing his work even after death. Why had he thrown her voice and made it sound like she’d said she loved him? It was little things, questions with no real answers, that connected like links on a chain that tied her to him mentally; the cuff of course being her wedding ring.

She had kept the ring. Despite the Maitlands and her parents saying she shouldn’t have, she’d kept it. And why not? It was a beautiful ring, with a rather sizable stone attached to it. And it was easy enough to lie and say the wedding ring had belonged to her mother, her _real_ mother, just one of the many things she’d left behind. And that despite all the former Mrs. Deetz had done, Lydia had been desperate to feel a connection with the woman and had taken to wearing her ring. She wore it on her ring finger because that was the only one it fit. Simple enough, Miss Shannon had certainly bought it hook, line, and sucker. But wearing the ring didn’t come without its own set of issues. Mainly, it was the looks she got from her parental figures. That look of concerned disappointment that she refused to forget, and that they were reminded every time light caused the stone to glimmer on her hand. Lydia was many things, but she was far from stupid, she knew they spoke about him in hushed whispers, even as Delia had worked out her traumatic memories by channeling it into -Lydia would begrudgingly admit- beautiful and well selling works of art. But after that? They never spoke aloud. Not when Lydia was around.

Lydia knew when he came back. Not the exact moment per se, but it wasn’t difficult to find out. It had started when the Maitlands refused to let her back into the attic, to assist Adam with the model as she had for months previous. That in itself was suspicious, but could have easily been chalked up to Adam wanting to surprise her with a little Lydia figurine. She would have given a terse and uncomfortable smile but would have appreciated the effort to make her a part of their now limited world, immortalizing her as it were. But, she’d snuck down, hanging on the stairs one night as she overheard their conversation.

“He’s back,” Adam had delivered with all the solemnity of a coroner pronouncing someone deceased. Naturally, the Deetzes had been floored. Lydia hadn’t blamed them, they _had_ seen him be eaten by a sandworm after all. And after that Juno had informed them that he was sat in the waiting room with the biggest number they’d been able to print out at the time. That he would be waiting there for quite a while. Lydia hadn’t believed the older woman then. Someone who knew that a way out of death was marrying the living? No, he probably knew that handbook as well as she did. And she figured he’d find some poor sucker to trade places with. Betelgeuse was a consummate conman, and wherever there was a conman, there was someone willing to buy snake oil.

The Maitlands had gone on to say that Juno had informed them that powers higher than her had been the ones to deal with Betelgeuse. But even their hands had been tied. Because, on a technicality, the marriage had been completed. The reverend had pronounced them man and wife, and the ring had been placed on her finger. It was completed, but not consummated, which meant Betelgeuse was still bound by much of the same rules as he had been before. The only difference now was where they could put him. So they’d decided to stick him back in the model’s cemetery. His gravestone was still there, but the whorehouse had thankfully been removed. This _was_ supposed to be something of a punishment after all. He’d found a loophole, but bureaucracy was just as good at playing that game. He couldn’t interact with anyone unless someone called his name, he couldn’t truly be free until he consummated his marriage, and he couldn’t do that unless Lydia went to him. Which _she_ couldn’t do so long as she didn’t know about him being back. So that was the plan. Lydia wouldn’t know Betelgeuse was back to sleazing about the model cemetery, and she wouldn’t be tempted or convinced. Funny, the faith they had in her.

But, Lydia was disinclined to care that Betelgeuse was back. So neither she or Barbara had killed the already dead man. That was a relief to her human conscience, considering he _had_ done as he’d promised and saved the Maitlands from dying again. But she wasn’t so generous as to go back and hold up _her_ end of the bargain. As far as she was concerned right now, she’d done her part. They’d said it themselves, the ring was on her finger, and the reverend had pronounced them. They were married as far as legal technicalities went, as far as the people in charge of punishing the poltergeist were concerned. She owed him nothing now, it was his own damn fault if his plan hadn’t quite worked out in his favor.

And yet… while Lydia did her best to move on, secure in the knowledge that her husband was shut up in that abandoned model in the unused attic, it still nagged at her. To the point where it effected her day to day life. An all girls school was supposed to keep the girls away from sin with boys, but also ran the risk of encouraging the gasp “sinful institution of lesbianism”. That had made Lydia snort when she’d overheard _that_ little worry of the faculty. So they’d arranged mixers with the local all boys’ school in the area. Apparently fornication outside of marriage was more forgivable a sin than homosexuality. Then again, Reagan was one of the ones pushing all of this, wasn’t he? Man politicians sucked.

Point being, Lydia was “encouraged” to go. She was given a nice dress, had appointments made for hair and nails, the whole nine yards. And she went, and promptly stood in the corner while couples left enough space for Jesus between them as they danced. And others obviously snuck out for the “bathroom” one at a time. If the bathroom was in use, it certainly wasn’t for the room’s intended use. Lydia was bored of them all very, very quickly. So she ducked outside, “for some air” she’d told one of the moderators. That had been where she’d met him.

He was one of the boys’ school students. But not one of the ones you’d see on the posters and pamphlets as they desperately tried to recruit more and more for their dwindling class sizes. He was the type of boy who should have been expelled but was fortunate enough to have parents too rich and concerned about the stigma of sending their precious little boy to a “public” school not to. Every time he got in trouble another building was added or updated thanks to his family’s considerably deep pockets. The sort of boy you would find out here, because dances were lame. He was lighting up a cigarette, the small flame glowing starkly in the contrast of the starless night sky. Lydia had felt the night chill seep in, and tugged her tiny wrap closer around her shoulders. Something compelled her to go over, to speak to him. He said very little, but offered her a drag. She’d certainly seen enough of her family members do it to emulate how it worked. She’d still coughed, but she hadn’t seemed like a total good girl either.

He’d smirked at her. The kind of smirk that… reminded Lydia of Betelgeuse to be honest. And he’d offered her another one of her own to smoke. They’d stood there in the darkness, saying nothing, simply sharing a space and a smoke and their time. Lydia left that night without even knowing his name. This continued at every dance for the rest of the year. Sometimes he brought cigarettes, sometimes he brought booze, sometimes, he brought some good old mary jane. Lydia had developed a taste for all of them, but less so the weed than the other vices. Maybe it was residual feeling of something being off with her system the next morning that she called a hangover only because it was the only thing she could really equate it to, maybe it was something else. Maybe it was the fact that being high on blunts was the only way she’d let him touch her; disconnected from her own body as she was.

She would feel the hot mouth as it brushed against her lips, tongue probing into her mouth, as it trailed along her jaw, down her neck, sucking at the juncture of her throat and shoulder. The hands as they ran themselves along her arms, tugging that silky wrap from around her form, wandering over her chest. For much of the year, whenever he brought weed, she allowed him to do this. She kissed him, made out, did a bit of light petting. And yet, somehow it felt… _wrong_ . Not necessarily with anything he was doing. Lydia was sure he’d bedded more than enough girls to know what he was doing in that department. Although, Lydia couldn’t help her mind’s idle wandering, wondering how it would feel if it were the dingy, grungy hands of another pawing at her, with far more surety and panache than her current paramour, of a mouth that had lost the heat of life suckling at her skin, of a voice rough with age and sin whispering filthy things in her ear as opposed to the silence of grunts and groans and muffled breathing through the nose. It was more that something about doing all of this with someone else… it almost felt like… _cheating_.

Go figure, Lydia would feel bad about cheating on her lecherous skeeve of a husband -who she was more than sure would have been just as unfaithful and more if Adam and Barbara had left Dante’s in the model-, but not bad enough to do him the favor of consummating their marriage and letting him out for good. Toward the end of the year though, it came to a head. He was graduating this year, as was she, and to celebrate he’d brought all three of their favorite vices. She was sipping on champagne while dragging on her cigarette and he was enjoying a freshly rolled and probably expensive blunt. And then, she was drunk, as bubbly as the champagne was, as foggy in the head. He turned to her and began to do as they usually did. But as they were kissing and he was reaching for the straps of her dress and under her skirt Lydia finally let those thoughts she used substances to repress have their say.

“I’m sorry,” she said, breaking away and gathering herself together, “I just… can’t.”

“Why not?” he asked, just a little too high to really be mad though his frustration at having been stopped was very much evident.

“I…” Lydia scrambled for an excuse, but what one could she give other than the truth, “I’m married,” she admitted, “And I can’t… I-” she didn’t want to face his reaction, or the rumors. So she ran. Ran all the way back to the house on the hill, shoes in hand and feet practically weeping as they'd walked the long road back.

She snuck into the house, it being late enough that her parents had trusted her to look after herself and gone to bed. The Maitlands might have been around, but Lydia didn’t want to see them either. Instead she headed straight for the shower, scrubbing all the remnants of the dance from her body. And the touch, why did it feel like she could scrub her skin raw and never feel clean? Why did she even feel dirty in the first place? It wasn’t as if her mother had ever had a problem with infidelity, it wasn’t as if her father had had his own fidelity issues resulting from all that drama before meeting Delia. So why did Lydia feel it was a big deal if _she_ was unfaithful to a husband that had only ever wanted out? It certainly didn’t seem like Betelgeuse himself had been big on fidelity and monogamy. So what was the issue here? Why did she feel so bad?

It was a question that plagued her as she slid beneath the sheets later that night, so late it was already morning. Lydia tossed and turned and eventually woke sleepless and exhausted as she wandered downstairs for some coffee. The Maitlands and her parents watched her, clearly wondering how her night had gone. Lydia left before they could ask, and spent the day sequestered in her room. There were only three weeks left before graduation, and one of those would be spent on exams. Might as well make sure she was prepared now.

Three weeks. Twenty one days. Barely more than a fortnight. But it was enough for a sickness to begin afflicting her. The sickness’ name? Curiosity. It of course, started when she returned to school that Monday to whispers of the only two people who would talk to her; Bertha and Prudence. Bertha had apparently gone all the way with her small town steady and was no longer a virgin. She’d positively glowed. Lydia heard that was what happened, but part of her was more certain it had been due to the gained experience rather than any lingering after effects from the sex itself. Her beau by all accounts had been a virgin too. And if there was one thing Lydia might ever take Claire Brewster’s side on, it was that two virgins sounded like a recipe for disaster. _Someone_ should know what they were doing. That of course turned to idle curiosity through the final lectures. What might it be like, with someone who _knew_ what they were doing? What might that be like, _feel_ like?

It was a laughable thought, in the end. She’d met the man lounging on a whorehouse roof. Surely, someone who had to _pay_ for sex wasn’t good enough to get it for free, right? Then again, he’d never said and she’d never asked. There was no indication one way or the other, wasn’t there? Idle curiosity tugged at her attention as she listened to teachers drone on and on about the importance of these exams. That those who had been accepted could always be forced to repeat a year if they slacked. So close to the end, she supposed the reminder was felt to be necessary, but Lydia couldn’t be bothered. She was a naturally good student, turning in good grades for very minimal effort if she didn’t care about the subject. The science lab was not to be counted since she’d gotten it for disobedience rather than actual effort. Regardless, Lydia’s thoughts meandered, wondering about college. The new atmosphere, the new culture, a chance for a new Lydia, as it were. Frat houses and sororities and the ability to fuck whoever she damn well pleased. And yet…

Summer came and went. Lydia had taken the opportunity to come to her campus early, safe and far enough away from temptation. Curiosity plagued her, but she wouldn’t give in. Because she felt deep in her heart it would be like one shot of heroin. Enough to get her hooked, and he would never let her live that down. Bad enough she woke up panting in the middle of the night, visions of grimy hands and a wrist with too many watches on it reaching for her thighs, delving inside her, causing her to be ever so grateful daddy’s money had afforded her a private room even though she was just a freshman. Dorm walls were thin enough, she really didn’t want to explain to a normie roommate the nature her curiosity and predilections had taken. Sweltering nights the only explanation she would allow for sweat slicked sheets and the many times she found herself cycling through when it came to laundry. Lydia wouldn’t even allow herself to indulge so long as thoughts surrounding _him_ had caused her need to spark.

That short stay at the college brought with it plenty of attractive people. Jocks, musicians, frat boys, etc. But that was the thing about them, they were nothing more than _boys_ . And while she had certainly noticed the way some of the male professors had looked at her when they thought themselves safe to do so (tenure was such a _wonderful_ thing wasn’t it?) none of them incited the kind of dark or forbidden thrill she’d received when Betelgeuse had beheld her in that faux graveyard that fateful night. Instead it was the same sort of disgust and revulsion she had _expected_ to feel with his slimy gaze roving her thanks to the difference in size, that had never manifested. Not until she was looking at living men who should have passed their virile stage a long, long time ago. Wannabe Hugh Hefners with none of the charm or wealth as cause to overlook their disgusting tendencies. And every time, every _single_ time, Lydia was reminded of him. What might it be like, with a ghost? With a dirty perverted lecher who’d had no qualms about putting a ring on her for the sake of his own freedom? What would his hands feel like, iced over with death as they ran along heated flesh?

By the time the end of August came, Lydia decided she would get her answer. The last night at home before they would take the packed up cars from here to her new home, a last night for nostalgia, for memories and goodbyes, and a last chance to him before she left for another life. Her parents had a dinner party they were attending with the Brewsters and oh Lydia won't you please come along? But Lydia had fobbed them off, claiming she had photos she wanted to take. The Maitlands and her parents thought it a terrible waste, but she was an adult now, so she could do as she liked. Lydia lurked in the basement until almost midnight. Dinner parties for the Deetzes lasted like college parties, and they wouldn't be home until three at least. And the Maitlands had kept up their living routine of going to bed at ten every evening. They said it granted them some small semblance of normalcy, even if as ghosts sleep was a luxury as opposed to a necessity.

Lydia then spent her time preparing. A shower, a pretty wine colored sweater she’d cut off at her midriff, a black plaid skirt so reminiscent of the one she'd worn to Miss Shannon’s, makeup, stockings, a lighter and a pack of cigarettes in the skirt’s hidden pocket. And heels. At the last moment though, she dropped her panties and left them discarded in a corner. She knew exactly what she was going to him for, and she knew that he would be more than willing. So why bother with any barriers? It wasn't as if he'd let her change her mind. She knew that with the same sort of conviction that she knew there was existence beyond death, even if she didn't have the proof she had with the latter.

Lydia with a trembling hand reached into her jewelry box, and pulled out the old key Jane Butterfield had given her what felt like a lifetime ago. The Maitlands had locked up the attic, but they hadn’t known she’d kept the key. She heard the clock strike as she pulled it out, followed by an ominous clap of thunder. Reassuring, very reassuring. Her heels seemed to echo like a beating heart as she slowly but steadily made her way up the stairs. Lydia placed the key in the lock and turned. A soft click, and the door was hers to open. Lydia locked the door behind her, the less the Maitlands knew, the better off they were. The model illuminated almost automatically at her entrance. Clearly, he knew she was here. And yet, it was empty, devoid of activity. She thought she’d find him where she’d found him the last time, sitting on the Maitland’s model headstones, filing at his chipped and dirty nails like it was a normal day. But _his_ headstone was still there. Lydia took a deep breath, this was it, now or never.

“Betelgeuse,” her heart began to throb frantically, “Betelgeuse,” she could feel the prickles of awareness, anticipation, and fear rise along her skin, “Betelgeuse!”

With a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder Lydia was suddenly inside the model, inside the graveyard, right in front of his tombstone. And there was a shovel. Seriously? She would have expected him to burst from his crypt ready to consummate the marriage. Oh well, Lydia grabbed the handle, kicked off her shoes, and started digging. Because she hadn’t expected any manual labor Lydia had quickly gotten sweaty and had discarded the top, working only in her bra, skirt, and stockings she managed to dig down far enough to his coffin. And then she tossed the shovel aside, if he wanted to get out, he could do that part himself. She clambered up the top of the hill and sat with her back against the headstone, lighting a cigarette as a reward for all of that work. She took a drag and decided to try it one more time, adding a sultry, “come hither” affectation to her voice she beckoned,

“Betelgeuse,”

BJ BJ BJ

Betelgeuse had always known Lydia was too smart for her own good. The dark little vixen knew exactly just how much to play up her innocence so that people would come to her rescue. He’d seen that little smile even as she cowered in her parents’ arms. She liked him, but she hadn’t been ready for him. Was he pissed? Yes, but only until he’d been able to head in and see Junebug about his case. She’d scowled at him and tossed the marriage certificate, signed by the preacher, at him. He’d known it all along. That ring had gone on her finger and he was as good as out. But Juno had one of the best poker faces he’d ever seen, and she’d smirked when he’d proclaimed having the upper hand.

“Not so fast Geuse,” she’d told him, ashing out her cigarette only to immediately start on another, “You read the handbook enough times to know about wedding a mortal to get out, so you should know everything else that goes along with it.”

Maybe he’d seen it as the quickest way out, or maybe it had been so long his rotting pulp of a brain had decided that it was less pertinent information when confronted with his burning desire for freedom, but he didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. And more importantly, if the rev had signed the certificate, why the hell was he still here?

“You’re some lucky son of a bitch, you know that?” Juno frowned at him, “Why the higher ups let _me_ be the one to deliver this to you I have no idea, but here we go. You are, on the tiniest sliver of a technicality I’ve ever seen, free. Somewhat, you got the marriage officiated, and the certificate, and the ring on that poor girl’s damn finger before you were turned into sandworm chow.”

“Great,” he smirked, the taste of victory already settled on his tongue like the tastiest sweet, “So why the hell am I-”

“ _However_ ,” Juno cut him off, “The marriage needs to be fully consummated in order to really count. So, you’ve been assigned back to the Deetz-Maitland house in the meantime.”

“Wait, _what_?”

“You heard me,” Juno told him, “What? Did you really think it would be that easy? You might be in limbo between freedom and not, but we're not gonna make it that easy. An example has to be made for anyone who hears of your little stunt and tries to pull the same. Do you know how much chaos it would cause if every single soul down here tried marrying one of the living to get out?”

“I think the better question is do I care which, newsflash, I don't,” Betelgeuse informed her as he folded his arms at her, “Only thing I care about is why the fuck you're sticking me back in with those yuppies. Or why sticking me back in the same house as my own damn wife isn't gonna make this easy on me.”

“Because,” Juno couldn't quite contain her self satisfied smirk, “As Lydia Deetz is underaged, only her _parents_ and specified guardians will be informed of your placement. And what on god’s green earth makes you think they're going to breathe a word of it to her?”

Fuck. She had him there. But he was a ghoul of many talents, he could turn this around. He'd turned around that thing with the nuns and the witch burnings, he could do the same here. All he needed, was the lay of the land.

“Alright, alright,” he made a show of looking resigned, “Ya got me Junebug. Can't do nothin’ to nobody an’ all that shit. You gonna stick me back in stiff city or what?”

Juno narrowed her eyes back at him. It was too easy. Betelgeuse never rolled over unless he was planning something. And he was always planning something. It didn't matter. Placing him in the model would contain him for now. She didn't doubt that eventually Lydia would find out he was there, and even more likely, that she would make the mistake of setting him free. But by the time all of that happened, it would already be out of her hands. Hell, it technically already was. That preacher had pronounced them, he was just about as good as free. The only thing the sandworm had done was relegate his status back to newly dead before the living aspect could take hold. Which meant they were playing in the dark, with a very real risk of everything blowing up in their faces. She could only hope there wasn’t too much collateral involved. Stubbing out another cigarette she sighed,

“Yeah, yeah, you’ve got all the paperwork you need, now get the hell out of here!”

And with a snap of her fingers, he was stuck back in dullsville; population four schmucks, a hot goth chick, and himself, trapped in a model. He was honestly surprised there wasn’t a welcoming committee there for him, but then again, the bureaucracy of the dead wasn’t exactly known for their forethought in warnings. Hence the whole being dead freakout most ghosts experienced. A guide or something would have been nice, but _no_. Bitter thoughts of his own demise aside, he hunkered down, trying to decide what to do now. The model was still a work of art, if only to himself he could admit that. Plenty of new places to skulk about and call home while he waited on his darling little bride to come and find him. And yet, something about the graveyard appealed to him the most. With a snap he was back in the bachelor pad he’d set up within the confines of the coffin buried beneath the model where he’d stuck his headstone what felt like forever ago. Then again, not only did time pass differently for the dead, it passed differently when you were stuck in that Waiting Room and he’d been doing both.

He felt the rumbling of the floor like an earthquake and popped himself outside just in time to see his two former suckers scan the model for him in a panic. Seems his arrival had been mentioned. Betelgeuse didn’t know what time it was, considering the attic was dark, but little Lydia must have been otherwise occupied or else he was certain she would have been here too. Juicing up a lit cigarette he saluted them,

“What’s up ya bunch a losers?” he greeted, “Where’s my little blushing bride?”

“Far enough away for now,” Adam told him, “And she won’t be finding out about you any time soon.”

“So you say,” Betel replied, “Fuck you really don’t give her any credit now do ya? You think the only reason I could put up with her is because I have some sort of fetish for the dark and depressed? Nah, not entirely. Girl’s smart, and you louts really think you’re gonna be able to keep her from me?”

“What makes you think she’d want anything to do with you after what you did to her?” Barbara glared at him.

He could have told them, he could have said he’d seen the excited little smile he’d seen when he’d been working his magic, when he’d joined the little group hug. Instead, he merely shrugged, “Deal’s a deal, and if you think that little bleeding black heart of hers ain’t gonna feel bad for skipping out on me-”

“She won’t,” Adam said firmly, “We’ll make sure of it. And we’ll make sure she never knows you’re here. Hope you like rotting in an attic for the next eternity,”

“Right…” Beetlejuice drawled, taking another drag on his cigarette, “The two people she made the deal for tellin’ her she shouldn’t feel bad about skippin’ out on it, that outta work, sure.”

But the Maitlands had left him there, and sure enough, no one came. No one besides the Maitlands, forgoing the door in order to keep it locked. Please, like that would stop her. He remembered the three months they’d been in the damn waiting room, they didn’t know little Lydia had her little skeleton key. But he did, he’d watched her from the model as she read the handbook, flipping through pages like it was the greatest goddamn thing ever set to paper. So far, he had to admit they must have been doing a good job of keeping him a secret, because he was sure if she knew, she would have come running to see for herself. But she’d find out eventually, and then he’d force her to finish what they’d started. He’d been waiting for over six-hundred years, he could afford to wait a little longer.

He supposed it was a good thing that everything hadn’t gone through immediately, at least not so long as he was up here. The wonderful law of thermodynamics meant that heat rose, and since he was in the highest space in the house, the attic got sweltering to say the least. He wasn’t exactly hot per say, all his internal organs that would have generated heat had stopped working long, long ago. But, he could feel the humidity cling to his icy flesh, in a sensation that was more general annoyance than anything else. Easily irritated, easily ignored.

Until one night. When the heat cloyed in a different way and you could practically taste anticipation in the air. Being dead for so long came with a certain sense of foresight. Something was going to happen, something big. Anticipation was oppressive and he even took refuge in his little hovel in the coffin in the false cemetery. It prickled along his unfeeling flesh, made him itch. Time passed too quickly and too slowly. He didn't want to know time, he didn't want to know day. He just wanted whatever was causing the feeling to happen, because he felt he had a pretty good idea of what it was. Despite his sequestion in his hovel, he heard the ominous clap of thunder as though it was shaking the entire model. And then, he felt it, a steady thrum of vibration, like footsteps sounding along the floor. The footsteps of someone alive, as opposed to the ghostly whispers the Maitlands couldn't make. How long had it been, waiting in that damn line, spending time away from his bride? A year, maybe more? Maybe less. Time meant nothing, only whatever it was that brought her here.

He knew it was Lydia, he could feel it in his bones. But he knew for certain the moment his ears caught the snick of the lock as something fitted into the keyhole and manipulated the tumblers. No way Lydia had given that key to her folks, she wouldn't have. With a soft creak the attic door opened. And there it was again, the tap, tap of footsteps, heeled footsteps along the floor. He settled into the beaten up recliner, trying to relax as that damn anticipation itched like he had fleas instead of eaten them.

But it came. The shuddering breath as Lydia assuredly prepared herself for something she knew she would be unable to take back. He knew her breath, he'd made a damn study of her those times she'd come to the attic, the cadence of her body was something he'd dreamed about for months, and the dead didn't dream, so that was really saying something.

“Betelgeuse,” once, “Betelgeuse,” twice, followed by a pause. Not one of fear, he couldn't taste the kind of fear he elicited on her, but rather the fear that she knew no one else would understand. It didn't matter, he knew her better than anyone else. There had been no use trying to escape, she was his, it had always just been a matter of making her realize it, “Betelgeuse!”

As much as he’d missed her, as much as he wanted to see her again, Betelgeuse felt the message should be sent that he didn't take kindly to being screwed over. Babs held the brunt of his ire for that since she'd ridden the damn worm in, which once he was out he fully planned to get revenge on beyond merely screwing Lydia’s brains out and bragging about it to hurt their delicate sensibilities; but Lydia wasn't entirely off his shit list at the moment. And she certainly wasn’t about to start believing he was some loyal dog at her beck and call. No, he was the master, and she was his bitch. And if she wanted him, she'd have to work for him.

He manifested her into the model, and much as he’d done with with Maitlands, he’d left a shovel so she could dig him out. He heard the grunts as she worked through the layers of replaced foundation to where he lay hidden below. It took her longer than it had taken the Maitlands, but she was definitely more petite, and working alone. Besides, he heard the labor stop every so often, so clearly she got worn out more quickly than most. It wasn’t about to stop him from taking what he wanted, but it was good to know regardless. Betelgeuse heard the ding of the shovel as it resounded against his crypt door, and then a final soft grunt as she tossed the tool to the side. He waited for her to call him yet again, and there was another pause. Then in a voice he’d only heard from the whores of Dante’s Inferno, though far more genuine in affectation, Lydia beckoned,

“Betelgeuse,”

Well, how could he be expected to resist when she’d worked so hard to get to him? Time to give her a treat.

BJ BJ BJ

She watched him slam open the door to the coffin and look around for her. Apparently he hadn’t considered that she might want to go for the higher ground when dealing with him. Not that it mattered, she knew what she was here for, and she was certain he did too. At the very least, she was certain of what he wanted from her. His freedom, which meant the consummation of their marriage. Lydia watched the wiry mop of perpetually on end whitish blonde hair poke out as he looked for her. And seem confused when he couldn’t find her. And it was that juxtaposition between what she’d been dreading and what she’d gotten that made her bold. She was curious, about his skills, about his abilities, about what it might be like… with a ghost. She was here to find out, and to give him his freedom in one fell swoop. Two birds, one stone. And with any luck, if she hated it, well she only had to do it once, she doubted he’d be very interest in a repeat performance anyways. Marriage of inconvenience, no feelings, just business. Barely suppressing a chuckle Lydia cleared her throat,

“Ahem,”

Betelgeuse slammed the door of his coffin open and looked around. He didn’t see her anywhere in front of the grave, but she couldn’t have gotten iced feet, since she hadn’t said his name and sent herself back. Still, he peered about for a moment or two before the sound of a clearing throat caught his attention. He turned around and thanked every nonexistent god above and below he was already dead. Girl could give a man a heart attack looking like that. Well, well, well, now what did we have here? A drop dead gorgeous girl turned absolute knockout, sitting there against his headstone, nothing on but a bra, a skirt, and some thigh high stockings. Lydia was sitting there with her legs open, one hand curved around the marker for purchase, the other casually holding on to a smoking cigarette. And she was looking down at him, heat in her eyes and a sultry, beckoning smile on her lips. He didn’t know if it was an unspoken invitation or not, either way, he was going to take it.

Grimy, moss covered hands reached up, sliding themselves along her calves and Lydia couldn’t resist just a bit of teasing after all the work she’d had to do, “There you are...” she told him, trying to sound annoyed but only barely restraining her amusement, “Took me long enough to dig you up,” she took a drag and through an exhalation of smoke she asked him, “You always this theatrical?”

Any lingering anger or resentment he might have held from their wedding was instantly forgotten. Mainly because she was here, and she’d dressed herself up like a damn treat for him, and here she was joking like it was all water under that damn bridge the Maitlands had fallen from. He couldn’t help the smirk that pulled at his own lips as he started feeling her up, “Only when it counts babes,” he told her, unable to keep from teasing her back, “Is this all for me? ‘S like you missed me or somethin’...”

She hummed, low in her throat and unafraid as he forced her legs open further to look right at the very core of her being. The place he needed to violate in every definition of the word if he wanted out for good. Her response not a lie, but definitely not the truth, and he would know, since he was a master of the same game,

“Just curious,” she kept her tone light, already feeling the goosebumps rising against her flesh at his touch. She didn’t know if it was from regular chills at the frigid fingers, from twisted anticipation, or from a sick combination of both, “I guess we _are_ technically married….”

“Mmmh,” he hummed in response, really too busy thinking about the perfect snatch in front of him to really be paying attention, “I’ll answer every burnin’, achin’ question ya got honey… but first,” he added, gripping at her hips and deciding to place a bite mark on one of her thighs, ignoring her gasp of surprise, “Gotta score ta settle with you,”

“A score?” her voice was breathless, “Isn’t this already settling the score?”

He chuckled darkly against her skin, “Nah baby,” he said, soothing the wound with a kiss, suckling to make sure his mark was nice and purple. Give her something to think about long after they were done, “See, y’said it yerself; you’re curious. Y’ain’t doin’ this outta some sort o’ bleedin’ heart situation. ‘Sides, ya weren’t even grievin’ when your hubby got eaten by a sandworm your little friend rode in from Saturn on your weddin’ day. Couldda at _least_ put on a show fer my sake, now couldn’t ya’ve?”

“Is that all you do?” Lydia asked in response, “Put on a show?”

“Show’s meant for entertainin’,” he answered, pulling her slightly more towards the edge of the grave hole, “Jus’ cuz I entertain’ don’t always mean I’m puttin’ on a show, got it?”

“And how am I supposed to know the difference?” Lydia countered, “I’ve certainly never seen you with your walls down.”

“M’walls _don’t_ come down,” Betelgeuse growled, deciding to hell with it and yanking her down into his arms. The swift transition forced her to wrap her legs around him as she struggled for equilibrium. He chuckled and added, “But tonight, that’s all yer gonna be doin’.”

“What?” Lydia arched a brow at him, “Coming down? Or just coming?”

“Cheeky ain’t’cha?”

“I learned from the best,” Lydia told him.

“Couldn’t’ve been from me, what’s goin’ through that pretty lil head of yours,”

“What, nothing,” Lydia quickly looked away, trying to hide her expression from him. He got the feeling he’d struck a nerve, and the sadist in him wouldn’t let him leave it alone,

“C’mon baby girl, don’t lie to daddy, you messed around with someone else on me din’t’cha?” his tone was teasing, but his emotions were slightly darker. Course, there were rules, punishments for cheating, even if she wasn’t aware of them he certainly was. And more importantly the powers that be were too. If she’d made a cuckold outta him his entire freedom could be in jeopardy.

Lydia was silent a moment, before burying her face into his shoulder. Apparently she wasn’t as averse to getting close to him if it meant he couldn’t look at her. Too bad for her he had a roaming eye, and it wasn’t just a euphemism, “Depends on what you mean by messing around,” was her mumbled response.

He sighed, getting the feeling that now he’d probed this wound he wouldn’t be getting anything until he resolved it. Rather than invite her into his dank and dirty hovel he carried her over to a soft spot on the faux grass and placed her in his lap, “Alright baby girl,” he sighed, “Tell daddy whatcha did. Promise I ain’t gonna be mad if ya tell me the truth. You let some pompous prick touchya?”

“I wouldn’t have called him pompous,” Lydia murmured, “He brought booze and other illegal substances to the school dances, and he shared, for some kisses, some attempts at my cleavage…” she paused, “I only let him do it because he reminded me of-” she cut herself off and color him intrigued because he asked,

“Who? Who’d he remind you of babes?”

Lydia took a deep breath in and it shuddered as she let it out, “You,” she admitted, “He reminded me of you, though I did imagine you’d be better at pawing a girl than he was.”

Betelgeuse snorted, “Made an impression on ya did I?” he couldn’t help the humor in his voice. Really, what a situation to get herself into, couldn’t stop thinking of him that she’d found a pathetic mortal replacement. But no one could replace the geuse, and he’d show her why, soon as he got one more thing cleared up, “Touchin’ yer tits and a few times o’ swappin’ spit, that all he did?”

“All I ended up letting him do,” Lydia blushed, feeling shame, “Except, the last dance…”

Her tone and eyes grew distant and he worried for a moment something might have happened to her. She was so small and fragile and delicate in his arms and he felt his murderous ire rise. Lydia was his, and had been since the wedding and hell hath no fury if he found out someone had broken her before he could.

“What happened?”

“He… he wanted more,” Lydia’s emotions were in turmoil, memories that seemed like a lifetime ago flashing before her eyes, recalling, feeling, “I was drunk, he was high… he started reaching under my skirt…”

“And?” he was growing impatient. What he really needed to know was if he needed to tear a mortal to shreds. She’d technically let him out already by saying his name thrice. The consummation bit was only to make sure he _stayed_ out.

“I stopped him,” Lydia told him, “I don’t know why but I felt like if I’d let him continue it would have been…” she blushed and looked away, “Cheating,” she said the word like it was some sort of mortal sin. And he wanted to laugh with relief. He settled for a smug smirk and nuzzled her closer, not having forgotten she wasn’t wearing anything under that tiny skirt of hers.

“Well ain’t I the luckiest sonofabitch in the world?”he asked, only barely managing to keep his mirth from rocking his frame, “Fuck kid, yer only young once,” and forever after, thanks to their deal, “Meet a handsome guy, reminds ya of yer poor husband, gives ya booze and drugs and don’t want no money in exchange,” he did chuckle then, letting it lower his register into a throaty growl, “But,” he snarled into her ear, “Y’eve do _anything_ like that again and you’re in for a world of hurt, got it kid?”

“Y-you,” Lydia pulled back from him and looked him, concern evident in her big brown eyes, “You're not gonna hurt me now, are you? I'm sorry, I did stop him, I-”

“Shh,” he hushed her, “Ain't gonna be mad, y’only had anythin’ t’do with that schmuck because he reminded ya o’ me. An’ as for hurtin’ ya, jus’ a li’l, unavoidable. Promise I'll make it go ‘way fast. Now,” he took her chin in his hand, “Let's get down to why yer here, y’said ya had questions for me,”

“Not… questions questions,” Lydia blushed, squirming a little in his lap, “Just, you know…”

“Yeah,” he rumbled, “I know baby girl. C’mere, let daddy take care of ya,”

He regrettably took her off his lap and laid her down beside him. He tried to think, as fabulous as it might be to further desecrate Adam’s precious model with rough and dirty sex in the cemetery, his bride deserved a bit more presentation than that. He could theoretically take her back to her room, claim her on that childhood bed of hers, defile her that way. But that didn't seem right either. Oh wait, he had it now. With a snap of his fingers model head stones moved from their places, creating a slab like bed frame. With his headstone forming the headboard he intended to rock. Out of nothing spawned an infinitely comfy mattress decked out in black and white sheets. He would have gone with red, but figured there'd be some red on them soon enough.

Betelgeuse scooped up Lydia and deposited her on the bed. She bounced a little and regarded it quizzically, “Impressive,” she hummed.

“Babe, you ain't seen nothin’ yet,” he promised. But first, to reclaim all that territory she'd let some fuckwit get his scent all over. And he was starting with her lips.

Out of all the things Lydia had expected Betelgeuse to do once she’d told him what she was there for, kissing her wasn’t even in the top five. For some reason, he just didn’t strike her as the kissing time. More of the wham bam thank you ma’am, minus the polite parts. So, it was odd when the first thing he’d decided to do after laying her down on the bed was to crawl over her and start kissing her. And, to be fair, it was less gross than she might have feared considering he had moss growing right near his lips and who knows what stuck in his gums. He didn’t taste like brimstone, dirt, or probably some slimy residue from the remains of his last meal. He didn’t taste like much of anything, she didn’t know if that was good or bad. While his mouth distracted hers his hands busied themselves roaming over her form. Given some of the context clues of her story he had to assume that the little prick hadn’t been able to get her clothes off all the way. He could always burn the clothes that had been tainted and magic her up some replacements anyways. Betelgeuse felt the way her stomach clenched as his filthy, dirt ridden nails scraped lightly against her flesh. She was humming with anticipation, which really should have been evident from the fact that she’d chosen to eschew the undergarments most breathing women went around wearing these days. The bra was nice, but not needed by any sense of the word, so he shredded it at the clasp and tossed it away.

Her tits were amazing. Not as big as some of Dante’s jezebels had to offer, but sizable for sure. Nice and perky too. He groped at one, thumbing over the nipple while the other hand reached down to dispose of her skirt. The stockings could stay, he liked those. With her pretty much all laid out nice and bare before him he pulled back to take a look at her. Damn, he’d knew she’d had the potential to be a knockout the moment he’d first laid eyes on her those blissful months the Maitlands had been stuck in limbo, but this was a damn work of art. And she was all his, marriage of inconvenience his ass. Unless she was the absolute worst lay in history -doubtful given the way she was moaning and undulating against him- there was no way in hell he was letting this be a one time performance. Grimy fingers decided to test her waters, sliding along her thigh and delving into her heat. And damn was she hot. Practically burning up. Lydia arched at the sudden intrusion and gripped hard at his lapels. Lapels, he started to suspect he might be a little too dressed for this particular occasions. Not a problem. With barely a thought he was as bare as she was, and Lydia stopped being enthralled with what his fingers were doing to really look at him.

“Wow,” she murmured, taking in the soft swell of a gut that spoke of at least a moderately comfortable lifestyle, assuming he could be believed when he said he’d been dead for about six-hundred years and had thus last been alive in the middle ages. A body covered with moss and mold and grime and a cock bigger than the ones she’d seen on those old HBO movies late at night when no one else was up. Betelgeuse preened, and she added, “You really _are_ all _Night of the Living Dead_ under there,”

“What? The fuck is that?” He paused, not knowing what the hell she was talking about.

“A compliment,” Lydia replied, “Take it as such,”

“Honey,” he snorted, “The only compliment I want is the one where you pass out because of how hard I fuck ya, think ya can do that?”

“Do you?” Lydia shot back, unable to help herself.

“I'm the ghost with the most babe,” he reminded her, “I can do anything,”

“Show me then,” she breathed, “Just what you can do,”

“Gladly babes,” he told her, “It's showtime,”

He moved two fingers inside of her, thumb playing with the little bundle of nerves above her entrance. The other was concerned with taking up and down her sides, leaving goosebumps and little red lines in their wake. Her hands slid up his arms and over his shoulders, passing over body hair and other living organisms that stick themselves to him like some sort of symbiotic parasite. A total contradiction if ever there was one, just like him. Lydia felt waves of pleasure begin to build as he set a rhythm, even but harsh and unrelenting. She wouldn't have expected anything less. And it worked, she felt herself rising higher and higher, grip on him harsh as she dug her nails into his cold flesh. She felt flakes of something bury themselves under her nails but she was slowly breaking too far apart to care. It was hard to breathe, something not helped when he lowered his head and added his tongue to the mix. Her hands speared themselves into his wiry hair, too much. It was too much. She felt like she was going to tear apart, that she was going to break under his hands. This wasn’t about freedom anymore, Lydia was certain he was trying to kill her. 

Betelgeuse thought there were very few pleasures to be had from death. Sure, the supernatural powers were a nice kickback, but really, what else was there? He supposed some might find it nice to not need to breathe anymore, games of how long can you stay under tended to last for days in limbo after all. Not that he would know, he very adamantly did not participate in such games. But there were plenty of drawbacks too, you couldn’t dream when you slept, you couldn’t taste anything unless it was already alive, you couldn’t feel… anything. Not pain, not pleasure, nothing. All his emotions were an act, a facsimile of what once had been. Being dead had cost him something he’d never thought he’d had to lose, his humanity. Oh well, not like humanity counted for much in the world of the dead anyways. You wanted to get ahead, you had to be willing to do the worst things and hell, wasn’t like he hadn’t been doing it when he was alive. What was one more stain to his blackened soul? But with Lydia, like with most things involving her, it was different. The taste of her exploded on his tongue and he dove in with gusto, removing his fingers just to spread her open further so he could really get at her. And for as much as he wanted to escape the living hell that was being dead, he was very appreciative of the fact he didn’t need to breathe at this moment. Meant he could keep eating out his pretty little bride for as long as he so desired. The lewd noises of squeching and slurping as he enjoyed his first decent tasting meal in centuries, however, was nothing compared to the sounds Lydia was making in response to his ministrations. He’d work her over until she broke, until she was so broken only he could put her back together again. Then she’d know who she belonged to. Who she had _always_ belonged to, from the moment he first saw her in the attic, long before the Maitlands had had a chance to know her.

The next time Lydia was really aware of what was happening it was that she realized she couldn’t move her legs. Her remaining limbs were trembling and she felt her heart trying to decide if it wanted to keep pounding or slow down. Her vision finally stopped swimming long enough to focus in on her… well her husband. He was leering up at her with the biggest self satisfied smirk and she was instantly reminded of the time he’d gotten rid of Maxie and Sarah and soliloquied about not doing two shows a night.

“Still doubtful I can deliver?” he asked.

“No,” her voice was hoarse, her throat sore, had she been screaming? And if so, for how long? “Never again,” she let her head fall back against the pillows.

“An’ y’wanna know the best part?” he asked, crawling over and settling atop her, “I ain’t even done with ya yet.”

“Oh god,” Lydia panted, “You’re gonna break me, be honest, you’re trying to kill me aren’t you?”

“Could be,” Betelgeuse replied casually, “After all, thought you _wanted_ in,”

“And you wanted out,” Lydia argued without any strength, “So how does that work if you kill me?”

“Good point, yer worth more ta me alive anyways,” dead women needed extra help, and not even Dante’s finest girls were immune to losing their fluids. If nothing else, Betelgeuse thought he could get used to that, “Now, let’s seal this deal once and for all, shall we?”

Shall we? The same question he had asked which had started all of this. The question of them going through with their marriage. But this time, Lydia was ready for him.

“We shall,” her consent was nice to hear, even if it wasn’t exactly imperative to have. She’d come here on her own, and he wouldn’t have let her back out regardless. The five or six orgasms (he hadn’t exactly gone to school, and so the only number he had ever cared to remember was how many times he needed people to say his name) he’d wrung out of her had done more than enough to loosen her up. Besides, what was a moment of pain compared to a lifetime of pleasure? The mark of a showman was to always leave them wanting more, and judging by the number he’d done on Lydia with just his fingers and tongue, he’d thoroughly fulfilled that particular quota. He didn’t have anything to worry about there.

He lined himself up and thrust home in one singular motion. Lydia arched and tensed against him, a pained gasp turned groan reached his ears. His baby girl really was the best, wasn’t she? Stayed nice and virginal just for him, that stupid prick he’d cleansed her of notwithstanding. And the squeeze from the resulting pain, it was one of the best things he’d felt in… well since his death. He hadn’t been able to feel anything since then but this? He might as well be in heaven, it was the only heaven a monster like him was liable to reach anyways.

Lydia tried to focus on her breathing. Damn, it hurt. Even with all the prep work he’d ostensibly done it still hurt. Crap, she’d been right, he was too big, he was going to break her. And yet, the sensation, the chill which simultaneously pained and soothed her aching muscles, this was something she’d never be able to get out of a normal union with a normal man. Not that she would ever attempt to be with someone normal after this. He’d taken her first time, and while it had by no means been romantic, it was definitely unforgettable. How could one top having sex with a ghost? They couldn’t and Lydia knew she’d probably never be able to accept anyone with a pulse into her body after this. Not that she’d be allowed to. Something told her that the inconvenience portion of their union was now squarely out the window. As he withdrew and left her feeling emptier than he’d found her, Lydia couldn’t muster the disgust, revulsion, or even commonsense to care.

Of the many things Betelgeuse was a master of, bio-exorcism, scaring, being a general prick, his ability to score through his lustful reputation was perhaps the one he was the most proud of. But this, he was set to outdo himself with this. His pace held no regard for his breathing partner, only that she felt the pleasure he could give, and the pleasure he could take for himself. Each snap and undulation of his hips was meant to bring a wonderful paradox of pain and pleasure. A punishment for thinking she could attempt to replace him, a reward for realizing who truly belonged to and keeping herself in preparation for him. This wasn’t a consummation of a union of any kind, this was a claiming. His mouth found various spots on her body, and with teeth and tongue he marked them all. Each of them screaming, ‘mine, mine, mine!’ to anyone who might catch sight of them. Lydia’s yelps of pain morphed to gasps of pleasure, and she even timidly began to move her hips, trying to heighten the experience. Now, now, that wouldn’t do. He slid a finger against her clit and let some of his magic sizzle against the area. Her yelp told him she was getting close.

“C’mon baby girl,” he growled in her ear, “Tell me, who’s your daddy?”

“Ah, ah!” was all she could manage to reply. He forced the issue,

“Say it Lydia, who’s your daddy?”

“Y-you are! You are!” Lydia panted, “You’re my daddy!”

“That’s a good girl,” he smiled cruel, “Now come. Come for daddy, come all over my cock while I fuck ya into next week.”

“I- ah! Betel-” a hand against her mouth told her that word was still strictly off limits. Her muffled words were let out and with a litany of, “Daddy!” on her lips she shuddered and broke apart.

Betelgeuse made good on his word and fucked her through this climax and two others before finally allowing himself his own. As he collapsed beside her he felt it. That subtle click. The release of his chains. Out. He was out. He was free. And for all the moments, all the centuries he’d schemed and plotted and planned for what he would do once he was, Betelgeuse merely gathered up Lydia into his arms, and juiced up a lit cigarette, and smoked it until he fell asleep.

BJ BJ BJ

Lydia awoke before sunrise that morning, feeling wonderfully sore in all the best ways. Well, her curiosity and more had both been sated last night. She found herself curled up against her husband’s side, the ring he’d placed on her feeling less like a shackle and more like a reassuring promise. She would never be alone again. She could hear the hustle and bustle of Adam and Barbara in their apartment on the second floor of the house, which meant they’d likely be getting ready to wake her up for the move. Crap, she needed to get back to her room before they discovered she was missing. Except, one problem, she couldn’t move. Fuck. well, maybe she couldn’t move, but she knew someone who could move her. She looked up at him, as still and silent as the grave. Funny, for some reason she’d expected him to be a snorer. Oh well. She prodded at him until with a snort he sat up, bringing Lydia along with him.

“Whuzzah!” he exclaimed, looking around before finally settling back on her and settling back against the headboard, “Oh, morning babes. What’s with the wakeup call?”

“I need you to put me back in my room, with the ability to walk if you possibly can,” Lydia beseeched him.

“What? Why?”

“I… may have neglected to mention I’m moving out today?”

“Fuck, was that what this was all about? One last romp with the weird and wonderful before resigning yourself to a life of mundanity?” he asked her, “Well, hate to break it to ya babycakes but as of last night those plans are officially derailed. I ain’t lettin’ ya go.”

“What? No,” Lydia shook her head, “I’m not leaving forever, at least, not at the moment. I have to move into my dorm at college,”

“College?”

“Yeah, you know, the higher education only the rich could afford back then and only the rich can afford now?”

“The fuck you need that for?” Betelguese asked, “i got plenty enough put away to support ya, ya don’t have to go off ta some hoity-toity bullshit school to get somewhere anymore.”

“And if I said I wanted to?” Lydia asked, “Can you please do this for me Beej?” she batted her eyes at him, placing a hand against his check and a soft peck on his lips, “Please?”

Fuck, he would deny it to double death, but he was going soft. With a sigh and a snap they were out of the model and back in her room, resting on her bed, “There, happy?”

Lydia moved her legs experimentally, they seemed to be less sore than they had been just a moment ago. She’d have to work with that she got. Placing another kiss on his lips she answered, “Very,” noticing his expression as she slid out of bed and got dressed in her usual pajamas so there wouldn’t be any raised suspicions, she looked at his dour expression and couldn’t help the giggle, “Don’t look so down,” she told him, hopping back on the bed to straddle him and place another kiss of thanks somewhere on him, “Dad sprung for this particular freshman to have a room of her own. And I certainly wouldn’t mind sharing, know what I mean?”

“What? You want me to come with you?” Betelgeuse asked, barely suppressing a snort, “Don’t need a degree, babes, ‘M a graduate of Julliard and all that shit.”

“Maybe,” she allowed, “But they say that college can get… _very stressful_ , it sure would be nice to have someone around to make sure nothing happens.”

This time Betelgeuse did snort, “Tryin’ ta outcon a con babes. Impressive attempt from an angel like you, but it’s not gonna work,” when she began to pout he held up a finger, “However,” he added, “Campus full of dumb hot chicks sucking dick for good grades and dumbass fraternity squabbles just ripe for a good scare or two sounds a helluva lot more interesting than hanging around with the rest of these deadbeats.”

“So you’ll come?” her smile was bright enough to light up a room. Amazing what a good lay could do to a girl.

“ _Believe_ I did that last night,” he parried, juicing up a cigarette, “And as a matter o’ fact, so did you. Several times in fact. But if yer askin’ ‘f I’ll tag along, sure, what the hell. We can always have our honeymoon later.”

Lydia let out a breath of laughter as she dismounted and shook her head at him, “With charm like that it’s a wonder I managed to stay away as long as I did. Everything’s already in the car, think you can stay out of sight until we get settled?”

“Can I? Yes, the matter of will I, however, is a different story.”

“What do you want?” Lydia sighed, folding her arms at him. He grinned, leaning forward,

“‘F I’m gonna stay quiet, you can’t wear nothin’ under whatever pretty l’il outfit you pick out for today, deal?”

Lydia sighed again, knowing that so long as she argued, she risked getting caught, “Deal,” she agreed, hurrying to her door only to cast one look back at him, “So… I’ll see you soon?”

“See me? Sure,” he waved her off and under his breath added, “As for gettin’ rid ‘o me babes. Now that’s a whole ‘nother story.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment and let me know what you thought. Thanks for reading and I'll see you all next time!


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